


to strive, to seek, to find, and not to yield

by gdgdbaby



Category: Saga (Comics)
Genre: Backstory, F/M, Gen, Slice of Life, Yuletide 2014, Yuletide Treat
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-20
Updated: 2014-12-20
Packaged: 2018-02-24 14:41:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,337
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2585054
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gdgdbaby/pseuds/gdgdbaby
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>IV has never been very good at timing.</p>
            </blockquote>





	to strive, to seek, to find, and not to yield

**Author's Note:**

  * For [brampersandon](https://archiveofourown.org/users/brampersandon/gifts).



> five times iv left someone who loved him behind, and one time someone left him. title from "ulysses" by alfred, lord tennyson. muchas gracias to k for the robot edibles. warnings for canonical character death and canonical depictions of violence in war.
> 
> dear cbran: i saw your saga prompts and felt deeply compelled to write something!! i hope you enjoy this ♥

1\. 

In the grand tradition of nobility and new money across the galaxy, Robot IV gets shipped to boarding school when he's twelve years old.

At the time, his father's head is still a 36-inch plasma TV. The royal sendoff, which the Crown Prince is regrettably not well enough to attend, is the final public event during which his father can still physically walk through the double doors of the throne room without having to shuffle out sideways.

"Impressive," IV's tutor mutters as they watch King Robot tramp down the steps of the palace, gleaming scepter in hand. "With that bulky thing weighing his neck down, I'm surprised he can still stand at all."

IV almost feels bad for laughing. He even might have, if his father hadn't stared over breakfast this morning, after IV had asked about his brother's condition, and gave only a cool, detached "It is none of your concern anymore," and a flash of snow on his wide screen in response. Much later, IV will wonder what it meant—looking into his father's face and seeing the Robot Capital blanketed in serene white—but now, all he feels as they step toward the ship taking him away from his planet is the balled-up hurt pounding against his ribcage.

When they get to the steps leading up to the aircraft, King Robot finally turns to look at him. Twelve years and IV still hasn't learned how to expect nothing from his father. Still hopes, desperately, for some meaningful farewell. But the entire aristocracy has turned out to see their prince off, lining the pavement of the palace boardwalk and spilling out onto the courtyard, and a show of strength is more important than genuine emotion. King Robot clasps his son's arm and says, voice ringing out across the lawn, "Today, you head to an honored institution that made your forefathers into the powerful men who established this great Kingdom. Do us proud, Prince."

IV gazes into his father's screen and sees, through the opaque glass, his own face reflected back at him, small and uncertain. "I have no doubt," he says, with far more confidence than he feels, "that I will."

The Venerable Crown Prince III, Duke of the Binaries and Count of the Isle of G.I.F, beloved by his family and champion of his people, goes brain dead three days later. IV does not attend the funeral.

 

 

2.

The Milton Preparatory School for Boys operates on a tiny asteroid-sized planet called Eduphoria, half a system away from Landfall. The entire surface area of the spinning rock is devoted to cultivating every sort of discipline imaginable, from the more traditional language and science, to things like sword spinning and fire breathing, for the more flammably inclined. Twice a week, half the school grounds look like they're preparing for some sort of macabre circus attraction rather than educating the galaxy's best and brightest.

IV's tutors had taught him all they knew about history and politics and military strategy, but left him ill-prepared for the more physical components of his new timetable. It doesn't help that his three suitemates hail from Demimonde, towering insect hybrids with more eyes and legs and pincers than IV has ever seen, and immediately take to jeering at him when he falls flat on his face during Athletic Conditioning.

But perhaps the biggest difference between home and boarding school, aside from subject matter and the fact that IV now had to share quarters with other people for the first time in his life, is that no one but the spineless administration seems to care that he is the crown prince of the Robot Kingdom. IV eats lunch two tables across from the son of the richest dark matter tycoon in the galaxy, and studies in the extensive library to the sound of the Alligator Prince snoring in the stacks. Here, everyone is someone, which also means everyone is no one. It takes half a week for IV to learn how to apply plasma packs to his neck on his own, and another to figure out where the power station in his room is.

One month after his arrival, sitting alone in the Great Hall for breakfast, IV overhears one of his suitemates whisper, with singular intent, "Did you hear? Drone's brother died the week he enrolled." IV stiffens, hand clenching around the power pack strapped to his neck. _There's no point in getting angry_ , he thinks, turning away from their table.

Anathema, the mantis hybrid, clacks his pincers and laughs. "I hear machine heads don't bury their dead, but repurpose parts for new units. You think he's been processed yet?"

 _Okay, no, fuck it_ , IV thinks, and whirls to his feet. Drawing himself to his full height doesn't do much except emphasize how much bigger they are than he is. IV raises his hands and balls them up into fists.

Anathema chuckles again, a thin, reedy sound. "You can't even run around the track without eating dirt. What are you going to do, Prince?"

"This," IV says, and transforms his right arm into an energy cannon as wide as the breakfast plate Barnaby the Beetle is eating from. The first blast goes careening into the ceiling, leaves scorch marks against the burnished silver.

By this point, half the students in the Great Hall have fled for first period, and the other half are in various states of distress trying to escape. IV's arm bangs against the cafeteria table as he aims again, and Anathema's five eyes blink pale red with fear. They scramble for cover as IV powers up, arm whirring with electricity, and then—

The ground seems to open up beneath his feet. IV drops ten feet and crashes cannon-first into a dark tunnel beneath the Great Hall. It takes a minute for his eyes to adjust to the change in lighting, but when he can see again, a blond-haired boy with gold-tipped wings is staring back at him. "Who—" IV wheezes, trying to catch the wind knocked out of him, "who the hell are you?"

The winged boy eyes his cannon with curiosity. "You should probably sheath your arm before we talk. I suppose it's draining your energy?"

IV glances down at his energy cannon and feels, now that the adrenaline is starting to wear off, an almost giddy lightness in his head. "I," he says, swallowing his panic down. "I, um, don't really know how. This is the first time I've ever…"

"Stop thinking about it so hard," the boy says. "Just breathe. Let it happen naturally."

IV inhales. Exhales, inhales, exhales again. He imagines opening his right hand into a fist again, and a moment later, his arm morphs back into its regular state. He gives himself a moment for relief, and then shoves the kid backward with the butt of his palm, an image of fire flickering over his monitor. "Why did you stop me?"

The winged boy remains unperturbed even in the face of IV's righteous fury, which just makes him even angrier. "Trust me," he says calmly. "You don't want to know what it feels like to kill someone."

"Do you?" IV spits. "Why do you even care?"

"Think about it this way, blueblood. The people that run this place won't expel you over a little property damage, but killing another student?" The winged boy shakes his head. "Even you can't be that stupid."

IV breathes in sharply and tucks his arms tight against his chest. "That can't be the only reason. Are you friends with those—those imbeciles?"

"No," the winged boy says, rolling his eyes. He climbs to his feet and brushes the dirt off his expensive breeches before reaching out to help IV up. "They're useless to me. Thugs, bullies. But you—" The boy smiles, and IV sees, in the darkness, the sharp flash of canine. "Well, first of all, you can be part of my Dead Siblings Club."

IV ignores the offered hand and clambers up himself. "I have no desire to be a part of any organization involving deceased relatives," he says stiffly.

The winged boy sends him a shrewd look. "I bet you got beat up a lot when you were younger."

"Pardon?"

The boy purses his lips and ruffles the feathers across his back. "On second thought, maybe not. You're Prince Robot IV, aren't you? Second Prince of the Robot Kingdom?"

"That's right," IV says uncertainly.

"You have no idea who I am, do you?" The winged boy seems to derive some sort of private pleasure from this, if the wicked grin on his face is anything to go by.

"No, I don't," IV snaps. "And where are we, anyway? Are you abducting me for ransom? Because people have tried that before, but I'll have you know that my _father_ —"

The winged boy snorts so loudly that it echoes down both ends of the tunnel. "Please. I just saved your ass from expulsion by bringing you down here. There are secret tunnels all over Eduphoria, and I know them all. Plus, the last thing I need is money." He sticks his hand out again. "My name is Peter," he says with relish. "I'm the son of the president of Landfall."

 

Though the Robot Kingdom has a long history of partnership with Landfall, almost everything IV's been taught about them has to do with their own involvement in the war. Despite their strong ties, the Landfall Coalition has always been incredibly secretive about the power players in its governing body. Every representative his father met with had been a member of their Secret Intelligence division. The President of Landfall doesn't even have a name that IV knows of, let alone a son. But if he did—

"The prince of the wings," IV says, slow, turning the words over in his mouth. "My brother died for you." The enormity of his grief, still unexpressed, hones in on another, more appropriate target. The skin on his arm starts bubbling again.

For the first time since their rather sudden meeting, the winged boy—Peter—does not look smug, or curious, or happy. The corner of his mouth crumples. His face takes on a sort of gray tinge in the low light, eyes blinking. For years after, IV will flash that face on his screen in moments of unadulterated anguish. "Yeah," he says. "My brother died, too," he says.

IV feels something in him give away. The last of the hot air deflates out of him all at once, and then they are just two sad, tired, rubble-covered boys, alone in a dark tunnel. After a long moment, he says, tentative, "So how do we get out of here?"

Peter admirably gathers the tatters of his previous gumption and hops up onto the balls of his feet, wings ruffling. "Don't worry. I know the way."

They spend an hour wandering through the labyrinth of underground corridors. They get to the mouth of the tunnel and step back out into the crisp air of the school grounds before IV lets himself ask, "How do I know you're even telling the truth?"

Peter glances sideways at him. "Like I said, you're just going to have to trust me."

But it's less what he says that proves the truth than the way everyone else at the school treats him. For the rest of the week, IV watches the teachers and other students navigate around Peter with the type of uneasy respect that's born from fear. IV knows what it looks like, because it's the exact same way everyone else in court used to look at his father. IV's suitemates are certainly so scared that he doesn't see hide nor hair of them on campus at all, though that might've been because of the energy cannon. Either way, it's a win-win situation.

More importantly, at the end of the week, Peter shows up at IV's suite and dangles an official document in his face. "Look what I got for you!" he says, bouncing forward on the balls of his feet.

"What is it?" IV asks, dumping his books on his bed.

Peter sweeps them back into a neat pile and grins. "Pack your things, IV. The headmaster approved my request. You're moving in with _me_."

 

Over the next four years, IV learns how to traverse all of Eduphoria's hidden tunnels, picks up a strange sport called racquetball, and does eventually get better at Athletic Conditioning. So much better, in fact, that by the time they're in junior year he can even give Barnaby a run for his money in the all-terrain obstacle course they have to complete as their midterm assessment. And despite Peter's brand of aggressive oversharing and his persistent devotion to causing as much trouble at school as possible, the way he sings too loud in the shower and his casual vandalism of all of IV's notebooks during class, he also exhibits all the qualities of a great friend: unyielding loyalty, the capacity to take all of IV's shit, and the wisdom to know when _not_ to draw a dick in the margins of IV's latest history paper.

Which is why IV doesn't tell him he's transferring to military academy for the last two years of his education until the day before he leaves. He'd been trying to pack in secret, banking on Peter's astrology class to keep him occupied all night, but badly miscalculates. IV has never been very good at timing.

Peter bursts into their suite at two in the morning, as IV's trying to cram all of his assorted clutter from the last four years into one tiny suitcase. "What the fuck are you doing?" Peter snaps, hands on his knees, wings twitching with agitation.

IV's monitor flashes a Code Red warning. "I'm packing."

"Obviously," he returns. He straightens and adjusts his rumpled uniform. "Why?"

IV moves away from the suitcase and starts folding the rest of the clothing on his stripped bed. "I'm transferring to another school."

There's a long, uncomfortable silence. IV finishes folding his clothes and zips his suitcase shut with some effort. When he looks up again, Peter's staring at him. "You were just going to leave without telling me at all," he says slowly, blue eyes going wide with disbelief. "You were going to take the coward's way out."

"That's not—"

Peter starts laughing. He shakes his head, hands shoved deep into the pockets of his slack, wings rigid with tension. "I can't believe this. Where are you going?"

"Military academy," IV says reluctantly. "Twenty parsecs from here. My father wants me to be prepared for battle. I need to be properly trained to lead soldiers into war."

"And this is what you want?"

The Kingdom's royal seal flits across IV's screen. "That isn't relevant."

"Of course it's relevant!" Peter clenches his right hand into a fist and leans forward, wings stretching out to full span, nearly reaching the chandelier on the ceiling. "One day you're going to realize that you have to stop letting your fucking father tell you what to do—"

"Shut up!" IV shouts. It's only when he registers the look of blank surprise on Peter's face that IV looks down and realizes that his arm has, of its own volition, morphed into an energy cannon. He puts it away and pulls at the collar of his shirt. "You don't get it, okay? Your dad's elected."

"So?"

A lightning bolt strikes the earth on IV's face. "So," he says, "it means that there's zero political responsibility on your shoulders to follow in his footsteps. But the Robot Kingdom has a royal family and landed gentry. It's not the same for me. There are things that I am expected to do because I was born into it. I can't just say no." When Peter doesn't reply, IV grabs the handle of his suitcase and rolls past him toward the door. "And besides," he mutters, pausing at the threshold. "Your father's the one I'm fighting for."

Along the hallway out to the main lobby of the student dormitories, IV keeps waiting for the sound of footsteps running after him, but nothing comes.

 

 

3.

The palace throws a grand ball in IV's honor on the day he returns from military academy. Aside from the aristocracy, all political allies of the Kingdom have been invited to attend. As such, the banquet consists not only of the richest plasma packs the capital has to offer, but also a wide assortment of foreign cuisine. When IV walks in fashionably late to his own festivities, he's coming off 48 hours of no sleep on a bumpy transport ship and four years of grueling day-to-day physicals, which is probably why he's so engrossed watching one of the diplomats from Gardenia imbibe hot cinnamon through his nose that he doesn't notice the young female robot standing directly behind him when he steps away from the ensuing flame.

To her credit, XII—and that _is_ who she is, IV's sure of it—doesn't immediately castigate him for spilling plasma all over her gown. It's been years since IV last saw her. He barely recall how they're related (was it third cousin twice removed, or great-uncle's second daughter?), but he does remember the lovely way her screen tapered into a fine cone. 

Her screen fizzes with gentle snow as she graciously pardons the accident. The two other girls by her side aren't so forgiving, though, not even after he apologizes and offers to find XII a replacement to wear for the rest of the night. "What are you going to do when the Prince finally arrives?" the one on XII's left grouses, throwing IV a nasty scowl on her monitor. "He can't see you like this."

"Oh, to hell with the Prince," XII says dispassionately, dabbing at her dress with a napkin. "I can barely breathe in this corset. None of it is worth the trouble."

The girl on her right flashes a warning sign on her screen. "XII!"

"Don't tell me you aren't thinking it, too," she continues, arms akimbo. "They threw this party for him and he's not even here. All this fanfare, and for what? He isn't even coming back from the war, just some posh military school. You know, it was too much to hope that he'd changed after being gone for so long. He's every bit as rotten and ungrateful as he was when he was a boy."

IV, still holding the half empty plasma pack in his hands, is about to say something—he isn't exactly sure what, yet, just that he feels both compelled to defend himself and a bit amused at XII's assessment of his character—when one of the Landfall Coalition's portly generals spots him through the crowd. "IV," he booms, wading over with his plate piled high with delicacies. IV lets his meaty arm fall across his shoulders. "There you are, son. The King's been looking everywhere for you."

"Has he?" IV says, straightening up. He deposits the plasma pack on the tray of a passing server and wipes his gloves off on a napkin.

"Of course," the general says, steering him toward the front of the hall. "There hasn't even been an official announcement that you've arrived. Come on, we've got to get to the podium."

IV spares one last glance at the trio next to the refreshments table. There's a horrified "NOOOOOOOOO!!!" marquee scrolling on loop across one of XII's friends' screens, and the other one's gone pitch black, but XII herself seems rather unruffled for someone who's just insulted the Crown Prince to his face. In fact, as IV's hustled away, she seems downright smug.

 

IV visits the stables at dawn two mornings after his return and finds that his favorite prize mare has already been ridden out. "Where's Gertrude?" IV inquires, hand cocked on his hip.

The stable boy shrugs and keeps mucking out her stall. "One of the other nobles took her about twenty minutes ago up along the mountain trail, Your Highness. If you leave now you might be able to catch up with her."

IV scratches beneath a chestnut stallion's chin and lets out a noise of satisfaction when its screen flashes tranquil grass. "I'll take this one."

It turns out that XII much prefers riding breeches to ball gowns. It takes another twenty minutes at a swift trot for IV to make up for her head start. When he gets close enough, he's surprised to find that she's riding bareback. "No saddle, cousin?" IV asks, drawing abreast as she slows Gertrude to a canter.

"One of my father's favorite pastimes was breeding horses," she explains. "I grew up around them, helped bring the mares to term and birth the foals."

They ride to the highest ridge overlooking the Eastern Sea in companionable silence. They dismount at the top. IV leans against the stone balustrade and looks down at the entire capital stretched out beneath them, the gleaming white of the docks and the ships come to port west of the palace. He takes a moment to savor the view before turning back to look at XII. "Would you like to head back down, or do you want to stay a while? There's shade under the tree."

XII surveys him for a moment, quiet and assessing, and then says, abruptly, "If you're looking for an apology for what I said at the banquet, you won't get one. I meant all of it."

"No apology necessary," IV returns without missing a beat. "You were right, anyway. I was an awful child."

"Truly horrible," XII agrees. She glances at him, an image of IV as a young boy flitting across her face. "I don't even know if you remember, but when we were nine and I came to court, you—"

IV shakes his head. "I do remember." It had been the first time the King had allowed him to ride one of the majestic horses in the stables. XII was there, milling around the fenced enclosure, a tiny girl in rumpled, secondhand squire's clothing and soil streaked across her screen. IV had only assumed. " _I want that one_ ," he told the stable master, pointing at the girl's steed. " _The one that dirty lowblood is riding_."

When she was formally introduced at dinner that evening as his distant cousin, the young Baroness of HTML, IV was too preoccupied with using his HDMI cable as a slingshot to pay any attention. Naturally, the pebble he was aiming at his history tutor had landed right in XII's plasma pack.

"At the time," XII says breezily, swinging back onto her horse and nudging it toward the mouth of the trail, "I don't think there was anyone I hated more in my life. Fortunately, your brother was much nicer."

IV lets out a low chuckle and settles into his saddle to follow her. "People always used to say that. He was everything that I was supposed to learn how to be."

XII inhales sharply, a look of genuine concern skipping over her monitor. "I'm sorry," she says, after a long beat. "I didn't mean to bring up old wounds."

IV sighs. "You haven't," he says, twisting the reins around his fingers. "Despite everything, I only have fond memories of Duke." He glances askance at her. "Who do you think it was that taught me how to make that slingshot?"

She snorts. "Are you going to blame him for all your character flaws, now?"

"No," he says. "Of course not. I was a rude, posh snob all on my own. In some ways, I still am." They ride down the winding trail at a mild lope. As they pass a tranquil mill built into the mountain, IV decides to take the leap. "Won't you dine with me tonight?"

XII laughs, her head tossed back to expose the smooth gray of her neck. "Really? After all that, you're asking me to eat with you?"

"Really. Let me make it up to you."

XII's hands clench in Gertrude's mane. "Only if you beat me back to the stables," she says, carelessly confident, and takes off down the dirt road at swift gallop.

IV suppresses the flash of alarm on his monitor and hurries after her.

 

She beats him, of course, by miles. IV wheels into the paddock five minutes after she does, his entire body sweaty and sore. The first thing he hears is the high arc of her laughter. "You win," he gasps, staggering off the chestnut stallion, bent over double to catch his breath.

"You put in a good effort," XII says merrily, somehow not out of breath at all. "I'll see you at six tonight in front of the palace."

IV looks up, a question mark on his screen. "What?"

XII offers him the image of a picnic basket filled to the brim with fried terabytes and dark green sea-salt flavored plasma. "Didn't you offer to take me out for dinner?"

 

XII becomes the 56th Princess Robot on a sunny summer morning. The official ceremony and ensuing reception are as overblown and ostentatious as any Robot celebration, but IV checks out early, mostly because XII grabs his wrist after the first dance is over and leads him back to their quarters. There, the afternoon light shooting in through the cracks in the curtains, IV helps her out of her resplendent evening gown. His monitor flashes a deep red as his dumb fingers fumble with her corset.

After it finally flutters to the floor, she turns in his arms. The swell of her chest presses against his. When IV dips his head to brush their screens against each other, a spark of electricity leaps from her monitor to fizzle through his.

 

Six months later, IV receives his first deployment. A two-year tour with Landfallian troops on the desert planet Cygna, the latest battleground of the war. King Robot announces the news to the court at large half a week before IV's departure. There would be no time for a glamorous farewell; the HMS Galactica would be setting off with his unit in three days, and IV had plenty of preparing to do.

The evening before he leaves, IV finds XII sitting at the vanity, staring blankly into the mirror. She lets him drop a hand on her shoulder, covers it with her own. "I think it just hit me," she says. "You're really going to leave me here, alone, to deal with all of your horrible relatives."

"I'm sure you charm and wit will captivate them all," IV says, rubbing circles into her neck with his thumb. "Are you going to ask me not to go?"

"Yes," she murmurs, fingers closing around his wrist. "I get to be the selfish one this time. You don't have to be your brother, you know, no matter what the King says. Please stay."

"You know I can't."

"I know," she says, a flower unfolding on her monitor, "but I thought I'd ask, anyway."

 

 

4.

IV loses a leg in his final battle on Cygna. What begins as a search-and-rescue mission for the missing half of Unit 3 in the Laure Canyon turns into a full-on ambush in the foothills, horned devils pouring out from the rocky ridges surrounding the canyon to aerially dive-bomb his troops. "REQUESTING BACKUP," IV screams into his communicator, trapped beneath a shaking stack of boulders with a fraction of his remaining men.

All he receives in response is snowy feedback.

"It's no use, sir," Branson coughs into his headpiece, pelican wings stained pink with blood. "We're surrounded. Even if they could hear us, they wouldn't arrive in time."

The next avalanche lands closer than the last. "MEDIC," someone shrieks, but IV can see, through the swirling dust, Doc Winthrowe's wings crushed beneath a landslide ten yards to their right. No medic would be coming to save them.

"So we stay and fight," IV says, and straightens up, knees popping. He leaps out from behind the boulders and aims his energy cannon at three horns trying to cast another spell. The first blast sails through the largest one's chest. The second one rips the staff-wielder's head from her neck—but that gives the third the opening he needs to send a guttural spell right at IV.

He suddenly finds himself staring at the red sky. For a moment, he breathes in and feels nothing—and then, like a crack of lightning, blinding pain lances through his left leg. IV lifts his head with effort, coughing something thick and wet up his throat, and sees jagged bone and flesh where his thigh should be.

IV's vision gives a sickening lurch. Before his head can crack against the ground, someone's dragged him upright by the waist. IV's head lolls back. Branson's crusty face drops into view, grim and determined, and then he's heaving IV onto his Pegasus, which is, miraculously, still alive. "You have to go, Highness."

IV wobbles precariously and almost slides off the winged horse. Branson yanks him level, gloves fisting in the frilled collar of his shirt. "What—do you mean?" IV wheezes. "There's—nowhere—for me to go."

Another landslide has just begun to rumble down the hill. Branson glances behind him once, then back again. "You're wrong. There's a hidden base at Terra Vega that the wings never told you about. It's stocked with emergency supplies, medicine, communications, everything."

IV tries to process all of it, but he's lost too much blood. Already, his screen is flickering. "Why are you telling me now?" he croaks, even as the Pegasus's wings start to buffet Branson back.

"Because, sir," Branson says. "Even if we don't, you have to live."

 _I can't just leave you all here to die_ , IV thinks, but by then, it's too late.

 

The next time IV wakes up lucid, he's in quarantine on Landfall. All the physical pains are gone—his leg has been replaced by the Coalition's best surgeons, and all the clinging gas flushed from his skin—but the hollow ache in his chest remains all the same.

 

 

5\. 

"Surviving isn't exactly winning," Special Agent Gale tells him, inspecting his nails with perfunctory disinterest, and IV is hard-pressed not to rip the cavalier expression right off his face.

Once again, King Robot has sent him off to do the will of the Coalition, and once again, IV can do nothing but answer. This time, the Princess doesn't ask him not to go. The night before he leaves, with her spine arched and her hands splayed across his chest, screen glowing pale white in the dark, all she says is, "Come back to me soon."

 

 

(1.

IV comes home to a court in full mourning. Twelve years after the fact, he finally understands the snow on his father's face.

But to hell with King Robot. To hell with the Coalition, and to hell with Landfall. These days, the only person who shows up in IV's dreams is the son he has never met. Nothing like one trauma to replace another.

XII had always been vocal about wanting children, but until IV's return from the war, he had never given it much serious thought. There had been the usual litany of excuses: they were too young, he wasn't ready to be a father, he was expected to go out and serve in battle. It was never the right time. But now that it's happened, and his son has been taken from him, getting him back is all he can think about. IV hasn't experienced such single-minded purpose since boarding school, when an energy cannon had spontaneously erupted out of his arm for the first time. Back then, it had been the same thing. An attack on his family.

IV has better control, now. He sits in the cockpit of the stealth ship Agent Gale lent him, screen trained on the tiny blinking radar blip of the planet Gardenia, and thinks, _Wait for me, son. I'll bring you home._ )


End file.
